Forsaken All I've Fallen For
by KrystalBlaze - Jerikor
Summary: The pirate is in your blood, boy, so you’ll have to square with that some day.” - Will reflects on his father, the demons of his past, and how he must let it go if he is to look towards the future.


Disclaimer- Erm… not exactly sure who _Pirates of Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl belongs to. Maybe Jerry Bruckheimer, being the producer and all… but oh well. It belongs to whoever it belongs to._

Hopefully, this is going to be a short series of vignettes centering around Will and his feelings about his father, and how he finally lets them go. I'm hoping to get Jack Sparrow in here, but this is totally brand new to me. My first fic in the genre, and I can only hope it's good. The Ritual of the Lost is something completely made up. I have no idea if it's true, just that I took it from my own mind. Hopefully it will do. The poem/song like thing is also something I made up. 

The language in which Will speaks as he stands over the cliff is Latin. 

Well… thanks. 

-KrystalBlaze

**FORSAKEN ALL I'VE FALLEN FOR**

**The Ritual of the Lost **

_"The only rules that really matter are these: what a man can do, and what a man can't do. You can accept that your father was a pirate and a good man, or you can't. The pirate is in your blood, boy, so you'll have to square with that some day."_

Will Turner stood looking down at the ocean, his hand wrapped around the hilt of the sword he had finished the other day for this occasion. Of course, he was the only one who knew, but what did it matter? He was here, wasn't he? 

The sword was awe striking, and Will was not one to brag of his work with the iron. Even Brown, his Master until a year ago, had grudgingly held it out in front of him and admired it with clean hands he had washed for the occasion. He had asked Will to whom the sword would go to, but Will had evaded the question, lying through his teeth. He was an honest man, but if Brown ever found out he had made the sword for the sole purpose of throwing it out to sea, his hide would belong to Brown. 

He had taken the silver gilded material from the storeroom of the shop they used only on special occasions. It had taken him three months to encrust the jewels in the silver and then go through the enduring process of gliding the thing with gold because Brown was in the shop so often. When Brown found the silver missing, the sword would be long gone. 

Beneath him, the waves crested and rolled, crashing dauntingly against the cliff wall and sliding over the sharp rocks which peeked from below the water. He held the sword out in front of him, twirling it in his hands nervously as the breeze twisted his long strands of dark hair. He gazed out resolutely, almost angrily. 

_And so, through the ashes and the tears, it is this I have come to. _

He dangled dangerously over the cliff, waiting as the demons mounted in his head and began to rip apart his mind, tearing at him, screaming at him. They did it often. He supposed the only fault demons had was that they were fouled by his own pain and suffering, by his own bitterness and questions. 

The demons. They rooted his mind to his bitterness, his questions, his anger. He danced the tip of the sword across the soft grass beneath his booted feet, watching the sun sparkle off it brilliantly. 

He wished, sometimes, Jack had not gone. True to his word, Norrington had given the captain a day start, allowing the _Black Pearl _enough time to be gone from England's waters, or at least be far enough away to never be caught by the likes of any from Port Royal. He still wished, though, that Jack Sparrow had waited just a bit longer, that the _Black Pearl _had not come back to save him. 

It was a terrible thought. If the _Pearlhad stayed away, Jack would have been hung, and Will most certainly imprisoned for his attempt to rescue the man he had grown fond of. But still, he had wanted to talk to Jack, question him about pirates, about the way of the things, his adventures, and, most importantly of all… _his father. __

His father, William Turner, the pirate Bootstrap Bill. It had been his father; yes… he had stopped denying it. It was with his blood the curse had been lifted, and there was no other explanation. Although Jack had often twisted the truth until it almost screamed falsehood when it pleased him, Will knew Jack would never lie of such a thing. 

It burned his blood, to know that he was pirate, that in his veins ran the blood of people he had always believed scoundrels. He was one of them. Even Elizabeth had said it. _"No. He is a pirate." _And although he had not shown it at the time, nor would he ever show it to her, the words were like a slap across his cheeks. She thought him pirate. 

_Was _he pirate? Surely being a pirate was not a matter of blood, but of will, determination, breaking the rules…

He sighed. _Why _in bloody hell was he lying to himself? He had all those things.  He broke the rules. He was determined. And Will had… will. He snickered at the thought suddenly, a snicker that turned to rushing pant and then a scream that pushed past his lips and spread over the opaque water below. 

Pirate! He was a goddamn pirate, a scoundrel who robbed and masqueraded a life. Being a pirate was not a life- how could someone call stealing and breathing death a life? He had learned from Barbossa's men that pirates killed and took whatever they liked. Jack's men had not been liked that, but then again, he had not been with them very long, and they were loyal to Jack. They would dare not harm him under Jack's watch. 

He had seen the courageousness which Jack's men had fought with. They had fought valiantly against an enemy, who at the time, could not die. Yet, they had continued to fight, because of Will's medallion, because of Will's legacy from his father. He had done what he could by bargaining his life for theirs, and they had seemed grateful, but what did he know? Who knew what they could be like? Who knew what they could become?

Who knew what _he _could become?

Will sighed, bringing the sword up to his shoulder, relaxing it against the crook of his shoulder. The wind danced against his cheek, and it reassured him. He was letting it go today. Today, he would let all his questions, all his words, all his doubts float out with the sword. He grasped the handle firmly, and dropped the sword so that it was lying in his palms. 

And, softly, he repeated the words. 

_"It is this day I have waited  
It is this day I stand alone  
It is this day I let it go  
It is this day I let my fears leave  
It is this day I let the questions fade  
It is this day I forsake all I've fallen for  
It is this day I leave myself behind  
And only hope to find myself  
Can only hope to find myself   
Where my spirit has free roam  
And find where I must be all alone."_

Shaking slightly and letting the words flow through him, he presented the sword just as Norrington, who had treated his request with tired suspicion, has taught him. He closed his eyes, breathing in the cold sea smell, revealing in it, in the simplicity which he no longer possessed. He almost sneered at the thought.

Was anything ever simple? He had been orphaned at a young age by the pirates of the _Pearl_. _He had been lucky. Elizabeth had claimed him as her finest friend the moment she laid eyes on him as he lay struggling to breathe after the attack on the ship. She had made her father get him board, and food, and had visited him often. They were friends, dearest friends…_

He was going to marry her. She knew that, he knew that. Once he had money, once he had a life, he would ask her. He knew she was impatient, but he would not marry her poor. He would not drag her down with him if ever he decided working was not for him. He had money saved already, and soon he would have enough the buy a house. He would have enough already if only…

The jewels for the sword had cost him a fortune. It was stupid, really, to spend so much money on a sword he would toss to the sea. But it was what he needed. He needed the closure, he supposed. Maybe he deserved it. And he was lucky, anyhow. Jack had come back from the cave where Will's blood had split with armloads of gold which he begged Will to stash when Norrington's men had taken him. And since Jack had gone so quickly and had been gone so long… well, Will decided he wouldn't miss it. 

Still, it had not been enough the jewels he had decorated the hilt in. It was lovely, though. By God, was the sword beautiful. 

He closed his eyes again, and prepared himself to let go. He wasn't sure if the ritual would work. Weeks of searching in Elizabeth's study had brought him the information: The Ritual of the Lost. Intrigued, he had read it countless times, and he had convinced himself, that if he did it, his questions would stop, and the burning in his blood when he thought of his father would vanish. If he had the tools, the incantation, the blood… it would be gone.

He stood above the sea, holding the sword on his palms, and praying it would work. He opened his eyes, surveyed the sea, checked his back, and whispered the words. 

_"__Aeternum__ vale__, __memoriola__." _

He gathered in his mind his thoughts – his father, Jack, the pirate blood in veins, Elizabeth, the _Pearl__, the treasure, the blood he had spilt for the curse of the _Black Pearl _and his father…_

He turned the blade over in hands, and taking a breath, closing his eyes, and ran it across his palm, drawing a line of dark red blood. He gave a small gasp of pain, wincing at the tear in his skin. He took his memories, his thoughts and his questions, and he imagined them in his blood, blowing from his cut and staining the sword. 

His father's weapon. Not his, per say it had been in his hands, but the weapon of a pirate. The weapon which signified him, which signified what he wished to be rid of. He ran his hand across the blade, staining the metal, watching it glisten in the fading sun. 

He whispered it again. _"__Aeternum__ vale__, _memoriola___."_

And he reached his palms above the water, flipped the hands up, and watched the sword fall and crash into the sea below. 

For a long, still moment he stood above the sea, watching the place where his swords had crashed and been swallowed by the waves. He sat down, legs dangling, wrapping his bloodied hand in a cloth he had brought. By drawing the blood on the thing he wished to forget, he had shed the memories and the thoughts they had brought.

It was supposed to work. 

He stood.

It had not. 

He groaned inside. Why hadn't it worked? He had done it all: the blood, the sword, the memories…

_Do you really believe in that, Will?_

He did not. He did not. He could not. It was stupid. He was stupid. Curses like this did not work. They just did not. He could not curse his demons away. He just could not. God would not allow it. It was his own burden to bear, his own life. 

He would make it work. 

_To be continued… _


End file.
